hostage
by malicious.malfoy94
Summary: The Malfoy’s have a new prisoner and she’s their one-way ticket into the Dark Lord’s good graces. Except one Malfoy cannot stop seeing Hermione in his dreams. How far will he go, risking his own life to save someone he hates?
1. 1

This fic is rated M for a reason :)

I've been playing with this idea for awhile. I want to give my sincerest gratitude for Billie Eilish. Her song "hostage" is the true inspiration behind this story. I hope you enjoy.

Darkness. For awhile, all Hermione knows is darkness. They took her wand, her only weapon and her only solace_. _She couldn't perform a warming spell, nor could she conjure up tea or a hot meal. Instead she sat on the cold, stone floor of Malfoy Manor's dungeon. There was no nicer way to put it. She was stuck here. Shackles on her feet, attached to the wall. Her wrists bound together with some sort of magical bind, any kind of resistance sent waves of shock up her arms and made her teeth chatter.

Time is of no essence down here. There was no telling if it was day or night. Her throat felt dry and tight, from lack of using her own voice. She was afraid to speak, afraid she wouldn't recognize it.

She doesn't know if Harry and Ron made it out safely. A selfish part of her wishes Luna was still here. If there was anyone that could make light of any situation, including this one, it would be Luna.

Instead Hermione slept as much as she could. If she was restless from her thoughts, she'd pull at her chains and let the pain shake her to her core. Anything to exhaust her body to the point of blacking out. Anything to avoid losing her last shred of sanity.

She was asleep when it happened. When she saw a sliver of light above her, the unmistakable sound of a door creaking open. Hermione shot upright, too fast and groaned at the effects, immediately dropping her head onto her knees. Dizziness shrouded her and for a moment she thought she might be sick. Swallowing back the bile in her throat, she lifted her head again, shaking messy curls out of her eyes. She was not hallucinating. Someone had come for her. She could see the silhouette of a man—had to be with broad shoulders and a lean, tall figure. It was too tall for Ron, could it be Harry? Hermione squinted harder, her vision becoming blurry around the edges. Blast it all, for once she wanted to stay awake and here she was, betraying her own body. Her heart pummeled as the darkness crept around the edges of her sight, and for a moment she felt hope rising in her chest and instantaneously crashing. Hope was dangerous.

She knew that. Yet couldn't control the onslaught of emotions raging through her. Was it someone to come and murder her, end her misery? Was it someone sent to torture her, kick her while she was already down? It couldn't be Harry or Ron. They would have made an entrance. Crash down from the floor above, blowing debris everywhere and Ron would blast away her chains, pick her up and kiss her like any knight in shining armor would. But this was no fairytale. This was a nightmare. Hermione collapsed against her own volition. Her temple made a deafening crack as it hit the floor.

Hello darkness, her old friend.

———————————————————————

Hermione woke with a dull ache in her head before the pieces started to fall into place. There was a light. A shadow. Someone had visited her and she had fainted. Before she could even see who it was. Hot, disappointed tears sprung in her eyes.

Whoever it was hadn't harmed her, but she felt over her body anyway. She was still wearing her tattered pink jumper, jeans and chucks. Nothing was missing, she wasn't bleeding and all her limbs were in place. She wiggled her fingers and toes. All intact.

As she stretched her legs out, her foot touched something. Instinct made her pull back quickly, like a frightened animal. Seconds ticked by but it felt like an eternity. Cautiously, she slipped her left leg out, searching until the toe of her sneaker touched _it. _She could feel her heart starting to pick up again. Tentatively, she reached forward and grasped the object.

Was this a trap? Surely, it had to be. It felt like wood under her fingertips. A handle of some sort. Carefully she pulled it towards her, the sound of it scraping across the floor was impossibly loud. It wasn't terribly heavy, but she was also weaker than usual. Once it was in front of her, she let both her hands roam until she felt something soft. She couldn't believe what she was feeling.

Bread. Someone had brought her food. The object was a tray. Next, she found a glass filled with liquid, what felt like a candle and definitely a box of muggle matches. Her excitement nearly made her drop the entire box, but she caught fire the first try.

Her eyes squinted against the sudden light. The candle was white and thick, not a candle traditionally used in the Wizarding world. It made sense, yet it didn't. Everyone knew she was Muggleborn, so it was common sense she knew how to use the matches. But it felt strangely out of place for any Death Eater to be purchasing muggle items, let alone give her any form of comfort. Her stay at the Malfoy Manor was meant to be Hell. And it was. Until now, staring down at a sandwich and water. More than she could ever have hoped for. But how could she trust it?

She took in her surroundings, trying her hardest to hold the candle up. It was difficult with bound hands, but she could see the empty chamber vaguely. Her new home.

There were candles in holders attached to the walls and once again she yearned for her wand...

Another intrusive thought hit her suddenly, making her stomach drop. How could she perform a spell to see if her food was tainted with or not? Her nonverbal spells weren't working, and she knew they wouldn't until she gained her strength back. Looking back down at the sandwich, of course it looked harmless. She sat the candle back on the tray and peeled back the top piece of bread. Plain turkey. Her stomach suddenly cramped painfully, as if knowing she had something in proximity to fulfill it. The hunger pangs had stopped some while ago, but now with relief so close, her body remembered how much she needed it.

She gulped audibly. There was no other choice but to eat it and see. The worst thing that could happen was death. Which was a horrifying thought in itself, but not really the worst. Images flashed in her mind, memories she tried to banish. She didn't want to remember, but the nightmares came against her will.

Bellatrix pointing her crooked wand at Hermione, her voice cruel but exhilarated to hurt her.

Filthy Mudblood. The words etched into her forearm like a tattoo. Dark magic meant it was permanent, not very much different than the Dark Mark. How poetic, Hermione thought bitterly.

More tears slipped down her cheeks. No, death was second place when it came to Bellatrix.

The first bite was small, and her mouth was so dry it was almost impossible to swallow without choking. Her hands had not stopped shaking, so when she picked up the glass, water sloshed onto her hand. A tiny sip. A few more bites. Another eternity passed.

Nothing. No convulsions, no nausea. Hermione finished the sandwich and every last crumb. The water she preserved as much as possible. There was no telling when she would get more. As much as she wanted to drain the glass in one gulp, she took one last sip before setting it back on the tray. Her candle was still lit, but wax had begun to form and she realized with dread that it too, needed to be saved. Light was not as important as water, but it made her feel less frightened to see.

What she really wished for was a blanket. No, she _needed _her wand.

She let her back rest against the cool wall, her eyes searching in front of her where it was once dark, and she saw something else. Couldn't believe she missed it before. Inches from where she found the tray was a pile of blank parchment, a quill and ink bottle. She knew without trying she couldn't reach it.

When she woke, she would try to summon it. Her eyelids felt heavy and she saw no use in fighting the drowsiness.

When the darkness reached her again, there was something inside of her, sparking alive and resonating deep within her.

That dangerous hope springing back to life.

———————————————————————

Draco doesn't know why he did it. Hates himself more for it. He should've let it be. Should've kept his goddamn nose out of it and the skin on his back safe. He was acting like a fucking Gryffindor. Sneaking around to buy sodding muggle matches and a muggle candle. White. Like her innocence.

He slept restlessly. He was thankful she fainted. It made his mission easier. The less she knew, the better.

He needed to leave her, let her rot. She deserved it. Right?

So why did he see her tear soaked face in his nightmares? Why did he jolt awake, certain he could hear her screams echoing in the manor? Mother cast a silencing spell on the dungeons. The first night was horrible. She wouldn't stop her wretched sobbing. Even after the silencing spell, Draco couldn't rid himself of her pain. It sat on his shoulders and mingled with his own, making a home there.

He shouldn't have helped her. He gave her a fucking quill and parchment for Merlin's sake. He basically gave her the green light to escape, run back to Saint Potter and the Weasel.

Maybe that's what he wanted. He wanted her to get away, so he could stop feeling sorry for a Mudblood. So her face would stop appearing behind his eyelids.

When he finally fell asleep, he dreamt of Granger again. Except this time, she was laughing. All freckles, bushy hair and warm, brown eyes. He didn't know which was worse. Her laugh or her screams.


	2. 2

Another nightmare. It started out happy. She was with her parents and they were walking to her favorite childhood park. The sun shining down was bathing her in warmth, despite the biting chill of the breeze. Her mum and dad were ahead of her, walking hand in hand. She wanted a love like theirs. Pieces of a puzzle that fit together as if neither had lived without the other. A giggle formed in her throat as she skipped along, making sure not to land on any cracks in the cement. Out of nowhere she tripped over her own feet, and she was falling... falling... falling... into ice cold water.

Her arms and legs fought to break the surface, but darkness erupted around her like spilled ink. The more she struggled, the quicker her limbs grew tired, but she knew she had to keep going if she wanted to breathe again. As if someone heard her silent cries, a hand grasped her wrist, sharp nails piercing her skin painfully. Bubbles left her lips as she cried out, yanking away from the vise-like grip. Her body emerged from the icy depths and landed hard on a familiar wood floor.

Bellatrix's laugh echoed in her ears, and dread quickly replaced the water in her lungs. She braced herself for the searing pain to follow, and when she opened her mouth to scream, no sound came out. But it was her own screams that roused her from sleep, and reality was worse, if that could even be possible.

She was in the fetal position, her wrists tucked between her thighs. Her entire body felt sore, her head being in the worst shape. If she moved too quickly, the throbbing was painful enough to make her wince and see white spots. A familiar voice startled her, and her head cried out in retaliation. Or maybe that was her own voice. The sound was so foreign to her ears.

"Stop bloody screaming, Granger. You're giving me a headache," he snapped, and confirmed she wasn't hallucinating. Malfoy.

She shouldn't be surprised. A part of her knew this was a possibility, given she's in his manor. But the lack of his presence thus far made her too comfortable. What was worse? Constant excruciating pain from Bellatrix, starvation and dehydration, mingled with insanity or taunts from Malfoy?

Death would be too merciful.

Hermione backed away as far as she was allowed to, pressing herself up against the wall. If he wanted to hurt her, it would be too easy. She knew Malfoy. He was the cat, she was the mouse. He liked a challenge. All the same, the fact she was completely defenseless sat heavy in her stomach. He could do whatever he wanted and she was utterly powerless.

"What's wrong, Granger? Not exactly the company you were hoping for?" He smirked at her then, and she made a horrifying observation. Malfoy has _dimples._

"How fitting for the Mudblood to be covered in dirt. Nonetheless, I'm here to feed you. Did you enjoy your sandwich?" He seemed to be pleased with himself, tilting his head to the side, watching her watch him.

He wore all black. The contrast against his pale skin was startling. A candle nearest to them was lit, and the difference was palpable. She could see every detail of Malfoy's attire; his platinum hair longer but still in the usual style—slicked back. Hands tucked into his trouser pockets and that calculating look in his stormy eyes. His body language suggested he was bored, as if he had something better to do.

"I see being held hostage hasn't given you any manners. Where's my thank you?" he drawled, his voice thickly sarcastic.

Hermione knew he was trying to rouse her, and against her better judgement, he was succeeding.

"Why should I be thankful, Malfoy? For imprisoning me?" she croaked out. "S-Starving me? Letting me piss on the floor?" Her voice sounded hoarse, but with her anger was able to muster the proper gusto to get her point across. Something she said amused him, because his smirk turned into a smile. It was similar to watching a dragon bare it's teeth.

"For being the cleverest witch her age, I assumed you'd put two and two together," he said, dropping his gaze to her empty tray.

_No, _Hermione thought. If he did indeed give her the sandwich, what about the parchment, quill and ink? Even if she couldn't produce the magic to send a letter, it would provide her some kind of relief to write. Keep track of the days. Recite her favorite quotes from various books. Very unlike Malfoy to be considerate unless beneficial for him.

"Why?" was all Hermione could say. He was disappointed with this response. He looked up at her through his lashes while slowly pulling his wand from his pocket. Hermione knew he wanted to see her squirm. When light caught his wand, it dawned on her that it was his. Thick, short Hawthorne wood with a black handle, very pliable. Most likely Unicorn hair, or Veela. Harry had disarmed Malfoy shortly before all the chaos, but somewhere in between Malfoy had taken it back.

"Ah, yes. Potter did disarm me, but I managed to get it back before he left you here. And because, Granger. I want to see you earn this," he gestures to the parchment, now under his shoe. Before she can retort, he's sliding the parchment in the opposite direction, further than before, away from her. She opens her mouth to protest, and stops herself, snapping her mouth shut. The bastard wants her to beg him, and giving him that satisfaction is the last thing she'd do, hostage or not.

With a swift flick of his wand, her tray refilled; an entire breakfast entree. Eggs, bacon, toast, a jar of marmalade and pumpkin juice. Words failed her at the sight of food, _real_, hot, fresh food and the smell... her mouth watered uncontrollably.

"Eat up, Granger. I'll be back soon, so don't go missing me too much now," he was smirking again as he turned his back on her.

"Wait," Hermione called after him. He stopped, turning his head to glance back at her over his shoulder.

"I need.. I haven't had any _feminine_ products since being here. A proper loo would suffice, as well..," she trailed off, the words tasting like embarrassment as they rolled off her tongue. Malfoy cast a scourgify charm silently, along with a bucket and roll of toilet paper. Once he was finished, he began walking away from her again.

"But, my hands are bound, Malfoy," she said, stopping him in his tracks for the second time. Her attempt to free her hands was pathetic and she knew it. But she had to try.

He didn't turn this time, but she could hear him all the same.

"You managed before. You're a smart girl, Granger. You'll figure it out."

"I hate you," Hermione spit out like venom, the words escaping her before she could stop herself. Pure anger had her forgetting she was wandless and he was not. Her courage dwindled when he turned to face her. There was no emotion on his face at all, in fact, he looked tired.

"Good." He vanished into the shadows before she could interrupt him. A loud bang and she knew he'd finally left. Although he was infuriating, he was still another human being. Bad company was better than no company.

The git completely ignored her request for female toiletries.

And to top it all off, none of it made sense. Food could easily be deciphered as Voldemort wanting to keep her alive, quite possibly as bait for Harry. And that would work, too. She was damned if she did, and damned if she didn't. But the parchment? Malfoy was not the type to help anyone unless it meant saving his own skin. Part of her felt like he did it just to torture her. Present her with a gift she'd love, whether or not it was useful, let her look at it and take it away with that awful smirk.

_Dimples._

Hermione sighed, and decided for now she needed to eat, regain her strength. Her brain would always be her best asset, but dehydration coupled with starvation, it was no wonder her thoughts came sporadically. Each bite tasted better than the last. Hermione tried to pace herself, and washed each bite down with juice. After licking her fingers clean, she realized she still felt empty. She supposed it would be some time before she could feel satisfied from a meal.

As expected, her eyes started to feel heavy. First things first, a harder challenge to tackle—try out her new bucket. Gathering her wits, Hermione hoisted herself on her knees, putting one foot on the ground to push herself up. Most the time she stayed on her knees or arse, so being on her feet made her sway and her head throbbed so much it made her nauseous. All that food didn't seem like such a good idea now.

The bucket was close to being too far away, and a sigh of relief escaped Hermione as she slipped her jeans down and sat to relieve herself.

It's always the simple, little things we take for granted, like a real loo or a mirror. A sink to wash her hands and face. Merlin, a hot shower would be heavenly...

Instead, Hermione wiggled herself back into her jeans before crawling back to her usual patch of wall. With the nausea at bay for now, she could feel the food bringing back her strength slowly but surely.

Relieved in more ways than one, she let the drowsiness take her under. She dreamt about Bellatrix again, except this time he was there, too. Watching her wither on the floor.

It was the strangest thing. He looked.. defeated. Sad. If she didn't know better, she might even believe he looked guilty.

—

One thing was for certain; Granger needed to hate him.

Draco wasn't ready to face his feelings, and honestly nothing in his head made sense anymore. Guilt ridden and sick to his stomach, Draco couldn't eat his dinner. His mother eyed him with suspicion, and his father didn't notice. Typical.

The Malfoy's ate at a table with fifteen seats. Grandeur wasn't as appealing as it once was—it all seemed so pretentious now. Why did a family of three need a fucking table fit for a small army? Why did their manor have thirteen bedrooms, five sitting rooms and a personal library? None of those things mattered anymore.

Quidditch used to matter. Pretty girls with short skirts used to matter. Proving to his parents that he would make their name proud used to matter the most, but that went to shite when Potter saved the bloody Wizarding world and a Mudblood beat him in every class. Now he didn't care.

He wasn't a murderer. A fucking prick, yes. A self-righteous, self-centered, spoiled git, he could own up to. But never a murderer.

He lost a part of himself in that astronomy tower. He'd never seen someone die before.

"Draco, darling. Please eat, I asked the house elves to make your favorite," his mother spoke in a hushed tone, like someone might overhear. He wanted to remind her the only ghost in their manor was him.

"How was the Mudblood? Still alive?" Lucius asked, disregarding Narcissa. Dark circles under his father's eyes made him look 10 years older.

"Yes. I did what was asked of me. Very ungrateful. Didn't even say thank you," Draco answered, ignoring the look of distaste on his mother's face. She didn't think discussing the hostage situation was appropriate table conversation.

"Shame. But, I suppose.. only means the Dark Lord's plan will be foolproof. Once Potter comes for her, I'll be the Dark Lord's right hand once more.." Lucius was cut short as Draco stood abruptly, the dining chair scraping loudly against the floor. Draco cleared his throat; blue eyes and eyes identical to his own watching him wearily.

"If I may...," Draco didn't finish his sentence. He didn't even wait to be excused, he turned on his heel and took large strides to exit the dining room quickly.

And there it was. His internal dilemma. Let Granger go, along with the guilt. Or do what was expected of him.

He couldn't stand by and do nothing anymore. Fuck. He sounded like a blood traitor more and more these days.

That night, Granger was in his sleep again. He couldn't remember a night without her in his dreams.

She was lying on the ground, hair sprawled around her head with tears swimming in those chocolate colored eyes. Her left arm lay outstretched, bare and bloody. He knew without looking what was etched onto her skin. MUDBLOOD. He dropped to his knees next to her, taking her arm in his hands. She was like a porcelain doll; fragile and haggard. She never spoke, but she watched him, forever frozen. He touched her blood and brought his stained fingertips to his lips.

He woke covered in sweat. His lips tingling. It occurred to him then, awake and flustered, that her blood looked no different than his own.


	3. 3

Every day, three times a day, Malfoy brought her meals.

Some days, they would greet one another, while others they remained silent. As days bled into weeks, she grew used to seeing him—as strange as that sounded, he was part of her day to day regime. It was like clockwork. Morning, she'd wake from a nightmare and there he was, hands in pockets, watching her with vacant eyes. Hermione noticed a pattern with the meals, and decided Monday meant blueberry pancakes and Friday was French toast with strawberries. All meals were cooked to perfection, and she never left a drop behind.

Today was no different, except Hermione was awake before Malfoy arrived. Light she craved so intensely shone in for a moment as he opened the door to the dungeon, the steps creaking under his weight. He was surprised to see her waiting, she could see it in the way his eyes widened momentarily, a slip up in his mask, before composing himself.

"Malfoy," Hermione murmured, her way of greeting him. He stopped a few feet from her, tilting his head to the side, assessing her.

"Granger," he responded, voice calm, giving Hermione the green light to proceed. Since the meals began, she was less drowsy, more coherent. For awhile now she had played with the idea of approaching him, but the timing always felt off. Until now. If she kept making excuses, she'd rob herself of a chance. On good days, she kept her mind busy, but on the bad days, she wanted to tear her own hair out. Long gone were the days she'd slip in and out of consciousness. Sleep only came to her after dinner now, and she always smelt her drinks beforehand. It wouldn't surprise her if Malfoy tried to slip her some sleepless drought. So far, he hadn't. Yet.

"As I'm sure you've detected, I want a to strike a deal with you," Hermione started, her eyes trained on his, watching for his reaction. Not one flicker of emotion.

"I need a shower. It's been.. I dunno. I can't calculate time down here, but before you came, I.. I wasn't exactly myself, you know?" Hermione stammered, afraid she was babbling too much. She'd rehearsed hours before, but now all her planned conversations and arguments slipped away, leaving her confounded.

"It's been a month," Malfoy said softly, dropping his gaze to his shuffling feet.

"Oh," was all Hermione could say, letting the information sink in. One measly month. A fit of laughter left her lips suddenly, and like a flood gate, it was hard to stop. Malfoy looked back up at her with his brows knitted together.

"I could have...," more giggles, "sworn it'd been at least a year," she was gasping for air, her stomach muscles beginning to cramp up. When was the last time she had a true, genuine laugh? Malfoy took a calculating step towards her, then stopped, and so did her laughter. When she peeked up at him, he was still frowning at her.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, aware of how insane she must look. What she didn't say was, if she hadn't laughed she might've started crying.

"A deal, you said?" Malfoy asked, dismissing her apology. He crouched down to be eye level with her. Instinctively, she shrunk away from him, her back hitting the wall. For one fleeting moment, she wished she kept her mouth shut, because the look in his eyes now made her stomach do flips.

"Yes. Whatever you want. In exchange for a shower, of course," Hermione said, biting on her lower lip. His eyes flicked to her lips for a second, then back up to her eyes. She was aware he might ask of something she couldn't give, like Harry's previous whereabouts or Harry's plan to take down Voldemort. In that case, she'd have no choice but to back out.

"What makes you think you have anything I want, Granger?" he asked, still indifferent to her claims. Hermione's tongue dashed out to lick her lips, and Malfoy let out a long sigh, closing his eyes.

"You're not the type to do something without a favor in return," Hermione answered simply. He let out a scoff, and a crooked smile clung to his lips, those dimples coming out to play again. The smile wasn't friendly, nor was it threatening. His reactions kept her on edge, like she was playing with a snake, ready for him to strike at any moment. She couldn't predict him at all.

"So sure of yourself all the time. You don't know everything, Granger," he said, letting his smile smooth out, lips set back into a thin line.

Seconds passed, and Hermione was sure he'd get up without a word, leave her without a resolution. She had no plan B. His loud exhale brought her back to reality, and his eyes sought hers out, holding her gaze for a long minute. He was searching for something there, perhaps a lie. He stood abruptly, smoothing out his trousers and blazer. Never one hair on his head out of place, she noted, very clean and well dressed. If provided with more light, she was sure to see her own reflection in his polished shoes.

"My parents are leaving for a trip in two days. Given I don't change my mind, you may have a shower then. On one condition," he said, lips twitching. Hermione gulped as a response.

"Don't ask me for anything else, do you understand? A shower. You will not leave my sight. And," he paused, for dramatic effect, Hermione assumed, "you will _owe _me. When the time comes, I expect you to oblige. Willingly."

There it was. She did have something he wanted, whether it was something she could give, she did not know. Bloody bastard was more clever than she gave him credit for. If she agrees now, she can't back out later. Unless she wants to face the consequences. Hermione doesn't break eye contact as she gives him her answer, "Deal." That twitch in his lips turns into another full blown smile.

_Dimples. _

She'd never get used to the sight. Unnerving, but somehow beautiful, very similar to a tragedy.

"Making a deal with the enemy, Granger. Don't forget," he narrows his eyes at her, slowly walking backwards, then turning on his heel. Hermione, occupied with her task, looked down to an empty plate. Looking up at his retreating shadow, his wand was in his hand before she could call out to him. An omelette, potatoes and black coffee appeared. Wednesday. The smell was heavenly, and she dug in once the door shut, signaling she was alone once more. Each bite she took got caught in her throat. It was hard to swallow past the lump there. Anxiety built up in her chest; an invisible weight crushing her lungs.

Decisions she didn't want to make, but had to. She needed out of here. Harry and Ron needed her and damn it, she needed them, too. She needed to know the Weasley's were okay, and if Harry was still searching for Horcruxes, if he hadn't found them all already. She needed to know if he'd figured out to destroy them properly, without her help and without Godric's sword. Hermione pushed her empty tray away, save for her half cup of coffee, but long lost the desire to finish it. Hugging her knees to her chest, she let herself cry, mourn the losses she'd endured being stuck here. Let her mind succumb to the weakness of emotion, for she went too long not feeling anything at all. Her arm prickled suddenly, where it hadn't healed. The ugly scar she'd bear forever stared up at her, reminding her of trauma she hadn't dealt with, and didn't know how to. Harry would know. He would say just the right things she needed to hear, and Ron would be the physical comfort. Warm arms to fall into, lips to kiss away the pain. She missed her boys so much, so she let her tears fall faster, staining the denim covering her knees.

She knew Malfoy meant every word of his conditions. She meant hers, too, for the most part. Her plan was not her proudest one, but she was very limited in options. If things went accordingly, she would get her shower. She would see daylight, real daylight. She would let hot water cleanse her. She would also attempt to produce a nonverbal spell - specifically, a Patronus. Her otter would find Harry, and she'd tell him she was still alive. There had to be some kind of protection spell around the manor, with the fact it was one of the places Voldemort hosted meetings with his followers. It would be difficult, but not impossible to break the wards. This was when she hoped Malfoy would come in handy, aside from access to the shower.

Calculating by the indecisiveness she read in his body language, it could go one of two ways. Malfoy would hex her, and turn her over to Voldemort. Or Malfoy would let her go. He didn't identify her or Harry for a reason. He wanted no part in anything, didn't want to be held accountable anymore. His family name meant a lot to him, and having all that power shift in short periods of time was breaking him down. She knew it was, she could feel it in the way he treated her. He tried to pretend, tried to put a show for her but his attempt felt weak. The boy that held arrogance on his head like a crown was not the same that she saw now, whether he was acting on Voldemort's behalf or not.

One thing remained certain, despite the war waging in her mind; she made a deal with the Devil. There was no turning back now.

* * *

Draco had a death wish. That's what this was.

He sat in his room, orange flames dancing on his emerald walls. The smell of firewood calmed him, as did the firewhisky in his veins. The alcohol effected him quickly on an empty stomach. He ignored the empty goblet and brought the bottle to his lips. That lovely burn scorched his tongue, slid down his throat and made his insides warm, numbness spreading in his limbs.

If he wasn't drunk he might change his mind altogether. It didn't matter what he did or didn't do, because he didn't care. So, Granger had asked for something that wasn't out of the question. Hell, he couldn't go a day without a shower, but a month? He crinkled his nose and wondered when he started giving a damn whilst not caring at all. A walking contradiction. An oxymoron.

Maybe just a moron, he thought to himself with a humorless chuckle.

He was supposed to be at dinner over an hour ago, and when his mother came to find him, he told her to bugger off. He saw the way she looked at him, like she didn't know who her son was anymore and he concurred. He didn't know who he was, either. Shame burned on his cheeks, so he took another pull from the bottle. The taste didn't feel as intense anymore, so he knew he was long gone.

Granger would probably love a shot of firewhisky right about now. Help her sleep without those nightmares.

He had the same hopes, but they were in vain. He knew nothing could rid him of her that easily. Physically and metaphorically. She felt like a sickness, infecting his brain. It was her fault. _Her _bloody fault he couldn't stop looking at her, thinking about her. It was a close call at who was more pathetic, but at least she was physically bound whereas he was mentally. He knew the answer was him.

When he'd first seen her, after she blacked out, the itch to reach out and touch her consumed him like wildfire. As if under the Imperius curse, he approached her with his arm outstretched. As he leaned down to brush his fingertips against her jumper, that alarm bell in his head went off and he left quickly, irritated at himself but mostly at her.

Fuck all, he would rather a house elf do his duty, and a few times he considered it. But instead he kept going, anxious every time he stood at the dungeon door. He could see color returning to her cheeks, but she was still terribly thin, despite giving her as much food as her plate allowed.

When Draco put the bottle on the floor, it was empty. Waves washed over him and he sat back, eyes closed, envisioning himself flying on his broom. Where he could forget about the bloody war. No tattoo on his forearm. No expectations from anyone, no disappointments. A life with no fear of the darkness looming ahead, threatening to overpower him. In his heart, he yearned for that carefree life. Draco was insanely jealous of himself before his sixth year at Hogwarts. He'd go back in a heartbeat.

Back then he knew he hated Granger. Seeing her humiliated with tears in her eyes gave him a twisted satisfaction.

The way she licked her lips today made his stomach turn and it wasn't an unpleasant feeling, nor was it welcome. Riddled with sudden nausea, he was certain he might vomit, as those tranquil thoughts in his head turned dark rather quickly.

Granger on the floor, screaming so loud that his ears rung. Bellatrix, laughing like a raving lunatic, as she struck Granger with another Cruciatus curse. He couldn't look any longer. Even his mother had turned away.

_"Please, please," _Granger whimpered, her body twitching from aftershocks of the curse. She looked so small then, broken. Draco's heart raced, sweat beading at his hairline.

_"Make it stop._"

Make it stop, he pleaded with her voice in his head.

Draco leaned over his armchair and vomited on the floor. He spit after the retching stopped, his stomach drained but his head still heavily sloshed. He looked at his bed, unmade and just as sloppy as he felt. He wanted to crawl under his blankets and hibernate, but knew his legs wouldn't work, unless he wanted to lay in his own vomit.

He closed his eyes once more, this time seeing Granger like she was now. Chained with her hands bound, but flush in her cheeks as she watched him smile at her. Hope in her voice when she asked for a shower. Yes, he'd give her what she wanted. Just this once. Maybe he'd stop feeling so bloody guilty if he gave her this.

His dream was unlike any he'd had thus far. Granger was in his arms, her bushy hair tickling his face pleasantly. She melted into his arms like a mold. The top of her head fit right under his chin. He knew it was her. Could feel it. Their hearts matched rhythm. He expected her to feel cold like before, but she was impossibly warm in his clutch.

Draco woke to the sound of birds chirping outside his window. His head throbbed and the smell of vomit reached his nose. He cleaned up his mess but didn't bother with a spell for his head. He needed to feel something today, even if it was pain. When he stood, his room went sideways. Slowly he made his way into his lavatory. He needed to purge himself of his impure thoughts. Cold water hit his skin, bringing down his fever for Granger.

He needed a cure. Fast.


	4. 4

Two days felt longer than the month she inhabited Malfoy's dungeon. She kept expecting him to say something, but he remained silent during meal deliveries. Feeling like she'd reached her quota of speaking, Hermione decided it was best to leave him alone. Her next conquest was the parchment, quill and ink. A letter would be easier than a Patronus, but Malfoy wasn't thick. There was no way she'd simply want to write Harry or Ron without any other motive. Escape was all her mind could mull over and she supposed Malfoy was fighting himself, too. Asking a favor of him meant more than asking a normal person for a favor. Malfoy was different. He didn't do favors, not even for his cronies.

His entrance made her sit up straighter. As he came into view, his appearance took her off guard. He wasn't in his usual black ensemble. Instead he wore grey trousers that hung off his hips like they were a few sizes too big. His white t-shirt fit perfectly, hugging his lithe figure. Despite his seeker build, his biceps bulged against the cotton. She realized then that she was staring rather openly and dropped her eyes to her bound wrists. Being locked away was doing things to her mind that she didn't particularly like. For one, she knew Malfoy's mood by his facial expressions or posture. Another was knowledge of his dimples, and having seen his smile more times than she could count. It was messing with her.

So much that her nightmares of Bellatrix slowly morphed into dreams of Malfoy.

It was day three, so today marked now or never in Hermione's book. One way or another something was going to change the course of events, and it had Hermione's stomach twisting in knots. Malfoy stopped dangerously close to her, the tip of his shoes almost touching her crossed legs. Gathering all her Gryffindor courage, Hermione chanced a look up at him, to find him looking back down at her. Just as Hermione opened her mouth to say something, he moved quicker than she could comprehend. His hands, large enough to take both of her wrists in one grip, wrapped tightly around her. He pulled her not-so-gently upwards she had no other choice but to stand on her feet. Unsteady, Hermione lost her footing and fell into his body. He felt like a rock and the impact made her cry out. His voice was low and she could feel every word vibrate in his chest as he spoke.

"I want you to remember our conditions, and I want you to know I will hurt you if you attempt anything today, Granger," Malfoy murmured but his words hit her like he was shouting. When Hermione didn't respond, he tightened his grip and she cried out again.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes," Hermione whispered, pushing away from him with all of her strength, but it was pointless. She wasn't going anywhere.

"See, not so hard, was it? Now I'm going to release you from the shackles, but I'm not letting go of your wrists until we're upstairs," Malfoy breathed each word like he was talking about Quidditch or the weather. She wondered then if she could outrun him, but thought against it. He'd certainly catch her, and she was too weak to fight or even break his hold on her wrists. It was a horrible time to notice their height difference, pressed so closely to his body. The top of her head barely reached his chin, even with her wild mane adding a few inches to her height. He smelt like rain and it wasn't completely unpleasant, if circumstances had been different, Hermione might even enjoy the scent.

Pressure from her ankles vanished and the relief made her exhale a breath she didn't realize she was holding. Malfoy took a step back from her, enough that she could see him.

"Let's go," was all he said as he pulled her along like a puppy on a leash. It felt strange to walk, but she was left with no time to adjust, because Malfoy's pace was fast. Climbing the stairs made the unused muscles in her legs burn. Once they reached the door, Malfoy stopped. He didn't look back at her as he spoke.

"You should close your eyes. The light will be overwhelming," he said. Hermione wanted to answer but once more wasn't given a choice because he was right. He pushed the door open and unapologetic brightness erupted around his frame. It was staggering. Hermione snapped her eyes shut, but could still see white behind her eyelids.

"Ease into it," Malfoy suggested, she could feel he had turned to look at her. Hermione cracked one eye open very carefully, the light still bright but slowly adjusting. They were in the same room Bellatrix tortured her. It appeared to be a large sitting room void of furniture. Eyes searching hungrily, she looked to where Dobby cut the chandelier. It was as if none of it happened. Beautiful and pristine as ever hung the light fixture above them, and all traces of her blood cleaned from the floorboards. It didn't matter how much their house elves scrubbed, the memory remained. Malfoy let her take in her surroundings before pulling on her wrists to signal it was time to proceed.

Large, narrow windows sat side by side, lining the entire east wall. The sky was a periwinkle blue with hues of pink and purple, the brilliant sun peaking above the horizon, bathing her skin with warmth she missed dearly. A rush of emotion fell upon her—sunrise was her favorite time of day, twilight being close second. Tears prickled her eyes, and that familiar knot rose from her stomach to sit at the base of her neck. Swallowing it down and blinking rapidly, she tore her eyes away to look at Malfoy. She could feel him staring, analyzing every expression on her face. Always studying her like she was an unknown species.

This place didn't feel like a home, not in the same way the burrow or her parent's flat did. The lack of mess was one thing, but it felt hauntingly empty. Hollowed out. Like Malfoy. A shiver ran down her spine.

"I'll give you a tour next time," Malfoy said, his sarcasm heavy.

"Let's get this over with," Hermione mumbled, truly realizing the situation she'd gotten herself into. For two days she anticipated this moment, and now that it was here, she regretted not having a better plan. Malfoy hesitated, his gray stare boring into her brown, like he wanted to crack open her skull to examine the contents. He cocked his head to the side, just as Hermione gulped audibly. He was so bloody unsettling.

"I forgot to mention, Granger, but I have to do this. I apologize in advance," he sighs, his tone anything but apologetic. Hermione's heart squeezed in her chest, that knot shifting in her gut uncomfortably. She was stupid, so stupid to believe this plan would follow through. He was going to summon Voldemort. She had signed her own death along with Harry and Ron. But when Malfoy pointed his wand at her with his free hand, black fabric billowing out of the tip—she was momentarily bewildered. The material wrapped around her head, covering her eyes and extinguishing the light like a curtain.

She really underestimated him.

"Can't have you memorizing anything, now, could I? Wouldn't be very thorough," He scoffed, yanking on her wrists aggressively, eliciting a cry from her.

They continued onward, and Hermione had to practically run to keep up with him. She tripped over her own feet, crashing face first into Malfoy's backside. He stopped, allowing her to gain equilibrium.

"Would you like me to carry you, as well?" He mused. The smug bastard was enjoying this. Hermione felt blood rushing to her neck and cheeks.

"No, but I can't bloody see, Malfoy. Not to mention my legs are shorter than yours," Hermione retorted, raising her voice angrily, but she knew it sounded feeble, even to her own ears.

Part of her plan was to spot as many windows and doors as possible. His home was a mystery to her, and it would be favorable if she had some sort of idea where she was going. Getting lost would be a disadvantage, on top of foolish. The Malfoy's knew their home better than anyone. This was an unexpected hiccup, and it was unsettling to know Malfoy had the upper hand. One step ahead of her, literally.

"Language, Granger. Not proper for a lady, however I'm not shocked. Muggles have such little knowledge in proper etiquette," he sneered, but when he pulled for her to walk, it was gentler. Hermione felt her nostrils flare and inhaled deeply, telling herself to stay calm. Don't push him, for she'd gotten this far.

_You couldn't sit in that dungeon any longer. You need this. You need Harry and Ron. You can do this, _Hermione told herself this over and over as her feet moved one in front of the other.

They climbed various flights of stairs. Trudged down long passages. Different temperatures in each room they entered. One area smelt like flowers, while the next smelt like him. A mixture of rain and masculine musk. She crinkled her nose, wishing she didn't enjoy it so immensely. It reminded her of being close to another person. A warm chest to lay on, messy kisses and fingertips tracing circles on her bare skin. Something she'd taken for granted.

"You'll be using my personal chambers," Malfoy announced as they came to a stop. Hermione tried to keep her mask of indifference on, even with the impending doom rising in her chest. He dropped her bound wrists at the same time her blindfold disappeared. She blinked rapidly, as her eyes were still unaccustomed to so much light. They stood in a spotless bathroom—_his _bathroom. Even with a magnifying glass, she was certain there was not one spec of dust or dirt on the marble floor. This bathroom put the Prefects' facility at Hogwarts to shame, in size and beauty. She wanted to touch the plush towels, feel the soft fibers caress her skin.

The walls matched the floor, white marble speckled with black. A walk in shower with glass doors stood in the right hand corner, but she couldn't stop staring at a large porcelain tub carved into the floor. She knew without asking she'd never get to use the bath. A long, onyx counter sat along the left wall, with two sinks and a large mirror above both faucets. She was itching to catch a glimpse of herself. Hermione hadn't seen her own reflection in.. she couldn't recall how long. The tent she shared with the boys didn't have any mirrors.

Would she recognize the woman staring back at her? Or would she look like Malfoy—a ghost of her past self?

"You may use the shower. You will have ten minutes exactly. Understood?" Malfoy interrupted her thoughts, she had almost forgotten his presence. He was always speaking to her like she was a child. When he didn't budge, Hermione huffed, annoyed with his lingering.

"Will you give me some privacy, please?" Hermione asked, lifting her wrists in front of her. "And I kind of need my hands, Malfoy," she reminded him, and saw the reluctance etched on his face. He gripped his wand with a white fist as he pointed it at her like before, but he complied silently, lifting the enchantment. Hermione immediately massaged her skin where angry, red welts marked her skin.

"I'm not leaving you alone, Granger. I'll turn so you can undress-" Hermione didn't let him finish, cutting his words off with her raised voice.

"Are you _insane_?" Hermione was angry now, heat flooding her cheeks. Malfoy looked at her with defiance.

_I need out of here. Please, please, let him leave me alone, _Hermione pleaded with herself, hope draining her body. She wouldn't win this one, she could feel it.

"No, and if you think I want to be here when you undress, you're mental, Granger. I have no choice. _I don't trust you," _he hissed the last part, and she recoiled from his words. He was quick to change his demeanor, and she'd certainly pissed him off.

"Fine. Take me back. Fucking forget it," Hermione seethed through her teeth, irritated tears pooling her vision. She would cry later, alone in her dungeon without his stupid analytical stare.

"Fuck you, Granger. I risked my fucking skin getting you here, now get in that fucking shower," he shouted, taking a step toward her just as she took a step backward. Both of them stood glaring at each other, chests heaving with unspoken insults. Hermione wet her lips and saw his face change drastically. Like last time, he closed his eyes and exhaled, his shoulders relaxing from their defensive stance.

"Turn around," Hermione said, defeated.

She wasn't getting out of here. All of this was a bloody waste of time. The shower itself was her only reward from this wretched day.

Malfoy turned, his wand still out and ready if she were to try anything imprudent. A string of nasty names to call Malfoy came to mind as she stripped herself quickly. Her dirty clothes hit the floor as she peeled off each layer. _There, _she thought, _have some dirt, prick. _ Naked and vulnerable, she stood still for a moment, taking in the absurdity of her situation. One she had created for herself. Never in a million years would she believe she'd be naked with Malfoy inches from her grasp.

Hermione allowed herself a second to look down at her body, and immediately wished she hadn't. Silent tears cascaded down her cheeks. She was sickly thin and pallid, bones jutting out, piercing her skin like sharp knives. She began to violently shake from head to toe, her teeth chattering. Malfoy stayed with his back facing her, and Hermione walked backwards until she collided with glass. She clambered clumsily into the shower. Once safely inside, she cleared her throat loud enough for Malfoy to hear. She couldn't see him through the glass, which meant he couldn't see her, either.

"Tick tock, Granger," was all he said. Hermione turned, fingers still trembling as she took the first valve in her hand. Hot water shot out instantly, and to her horror it smelt like him. His scent was intoxicating, making her dizzy. She quickly shut it off and reached for the next. Purple water sprouted out this time, unmistakable lavender tickling her nose and a hint of something else. Patchouli, perhaps? Hermione decided this would suffice. Lavender was popular for it's healing properties. She closed her eyes, ravishing in the torrent embracing her. A moan escaped her before she could stop herself, but blimey. Her first hot meal had nothing on this.

Her tense muscles slacked, water pounding into her like fingertips. She grabbed a white bar of soap that looked unused and began scrubbing every inch of her flesh. Black water trickled down her legs, pooling around her feet. She was washing away what Bellatrix did to her, Malfoy's confusing stares and the grimy dungeon floor. She lathered up her hair with what was left of the soap bar, fingers working in circular motions on her scalp. There was a small bump on her temple still, from hitting it weeks ago, when Malfoy first visited her.

"Four minutes, Granger," Malfoy called out. Hermione leaned against the shower wall, pressing her hot cheek against the cool tile. Water beaded on her long lashes like jeweled tears. She didn't want to go, not yet. Once she was back in the dungeon, she'd be faced with the reality of not getting an inch closer to freedom.

A crash from somewhere below sent Hermione off the wall. Her water stopped before she could turn it off herself. Malfoy had done it, with his wand. Ears straining, Hermione put a hand on the shower door handle.

"Stay here," Malfoy ordered, and the door snapped shut. He was gone.

And she was alone.

Faster than she thought possible, Hermione jumped out, hair clinging to her wet back. Hastily, she wrapped herself in the fluffy towel she'd seen earlier. But where were her bloody clothes? Eyes scoring the entire room, she was frantic. Just as she decided she'd have to proceed without, she finally spotted a pile of seemingly clean clothes, resting on a ottoman by the bathroom door. She didn't care if they were meant for her or not, she ripped the over-sized gray jumper over her head, slipped into the baggy black trousers that were inches too long. Malfoy. These were Malfoy's. She knew when his scent assaulted her nose. He must have taken her clothes purposely, bloody git.

Hermione could hear nothing but her erratic breathing, heart pounding too fast in her chest. His parents returning to an empty dungeon would cause chaos, surely. Had they found her gone, and sent for Voldemort? Straining for any other sound of conflict, Hermione gripped the bathroom door handle, pulling it open slightly. Eerily quiet. Alarm bells rang in her head. She needed to act now, time was dwindling down the longer she stood there, like a deer in headlights.

Hermione pushed the door shut, turning the lock. Malfoy could easily unlock it, but she did it anyways, buying herself one more precious second. Somewhere in the distance she heard footsteps. Sweat trickled down her back, or was that water? Backing up until she stood in the center of the room, Hermione dropped to her bottom, hugging her knees close. Focus, focus, she needed to focus. Her eyes fell shut and she cleared her mind of the rising panic; alarm still blaring in her head.

"Harry, I'm alive and safe for now. I'm not sure what kind of wards they have up, so please. Be careful. They're using me as bait. I-I love you both," Hermione's voice quivered. "Please, help me. Please. I'm in the dungeons."

She needed a happy memory. Racking her brain for something—_anything, _she stumbled upon the memory of receiving her Hogwarts letter. She was eleven, knobby kneed and cherub cheeked. Her mum had put on the early morning telly service, her dad going on about a patient with severe tooth decay. Hermione noticed the owl first, a brown barn owl with round, yellow eyes. Instead of fear, her curiosity peaked. As she got closer to the window, she saw a letter in the owl's beak. How peculiar, Hermione recalled thinking. A letter H stamped with wax sealed the envelope, bearing a coat of arms she'd never seen before. Her mum called for her, but quickly noticed the owl, too.

Her parents were so proud, they'd written her aunties and uncles, cousins and grandparents. A witch in the family. Suddenly, the scene shifted to the sorting hat ceremony. _Gryffindor! _Applause filled her ears as she hopped down to join her classmates. She belonged. Harry Potter was sorted into the same House, and so was the red-haired boy, Ronald Weasley. She wanted to be their friend. Harry wasn't the only one that found a home in Hogwarts. More memories flashed in her mind like a slideshow. Harry and Ron saving her, hours in the dimly lit library, top marks in every class. She was glowing blue, her silent spell brewing inside, the intensity of it humming like electricity.

Streaks of blue and white light erupted from her as she whispered _Expectro Patronum _over and over. Her otter sprung to life, swimming laps around her twice before vanishing into the marble wall. Hermione was crying again, a mixture of exhaustion and elation.

_Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. _

Alarms blared again, bringing Hermione back to Malfoy's bathroom. These alarms weren't just in her head, she could feel the vibration of it from the manor itself. She stood just as the bathroom door flew off its hinges. Malfoy stormed in, his large steps reaching her fast. Her mouth fell open as she read the fury on his features.

She'd done it. The alarms. The bloody wards had gone off when her Patronus penetrated it. She'd forgotten this, for not all protective enchantments worked the same. Common wards did not permit dark magic, and her Patronus was the opposite of dark. Malfoy lifted his wand above his head, the tip glowing red. The screeching alarm came to a halt. Calm before the storm. He gripped her upper arms hard. Hermione gasped as he began shaking her, her head rocking back and forth.

"_What did you do?" _Malfoy whispered, teeth bared. She preferred the yelling, not this. This was more chilling.

"Granger, so help me. What. Did. You. Do," he squeezed her harder as he spoke, pausing between each word. He was leaning down, his nose inches from her own.

"A Patronus—a-a message, Malfoy, please. You're hurting me," Hermione cried, knowing if she pulled away he'd hurt her more. He exhaled, his cool breath brushing her lips and chin. He released her then, and even as all her instincts cried to run, punch him, _something, _she stood there like a dummy. Paralyzed. Malfoy clenched his jaw and pointed his wand at her face. Hermione braced herself for the worst, squeezing her eyes shut as more tears slipped down her cheeks.

The blindfold wrapped around her head, and her wrists seized together, back in the bind. Was it sick she felt relief? She was expecting the Cruciatus. Was Malfoy capable of such magic?

He stunned her then, and her world went black. Malfoy caught her limp figure, hoisting her up over his broad shoulder.


	5. 5

What a bloody mess.

As much as Draco wanted to blame Granger, he couldn't. She did what any normal person in danger would have done. She tried to escape. Lied her bloody arse off and seized the first opportunity she got. He'd practically given her what she wanted on a silver platter. Here, Granger, set yourself free. Send a bloody Patronus. He should've given her the quill and parchment. He could've sent her letter by owl. Prevented the entire fiasco.

His mother and father arrived as soon as he closed the dungeon door. He had to change Granger's clothes, the goddamn lunatic was wearing his jumper and trousers. He had cleaned her clothes for her, and yes, he took them as a preventative measure. Apparently he wasn't as thorough as he prided himself on, because the bloody witch found his, likely set out by a house elf. Thankfully, he had his wand and didn't have to physically undress Granger himself. He had exhausted himself picturing her naked while she showered in close proximity—too close for comfort.

And her _moan._

Draco couldn't breathe.

Twenty some Death Eaters arrived moments after his parents. Narcissa grasped Draco's hands, blue eyes twinkling with frightened tears. He hated seeing women cry. She was worried for her son, always, even more so with a Dark Mark branded on his skin. He was a walking liability to his parents and he was sick of it. Sick of everything.

Fucking Granger.

"She's still here," he assured his mother first, and her relief was palpable. He wished it was contagious. Bellatrix emerged from the crowd, her heavily lidded eyes on Draco.

"The girl?" was all she asked, eyes narrowing. She didn't trust her nephew or brother-in-law anymore. They were barely accepted among their own, how could they ever find acceptance anywhere else?

"Still in the dungeon. I searched the Manor already. Three times. I don't believe Potter, Weasley or anyone from the Order set foot on our property. I believe an attempt was made to get inside, but once the alarms went off, they aborted mission," Draco explained, hoping his facial expressions didn't give him away. His mother was the only one that could read through him, so he kept his gaze trained on his Aunt.

The Malfoy's were known for three things; money, white blond hair, and Occlumency. He was thankful for his genes, for the first time in a long time. Draco surprised himself with how easy it was to admit his self-loathing, whereas a month ago he was still in denial. Bellatrix regarded her nephew for seconds, minutes... Draco wasn't sure, but wouldn't look away until she did first. She huffed out, a strand of her black hair dancing across her forehead.

"If you don't mind, Cissy, I'd like to search the Manor myself," Bellatrix inquired, shifting her dark eyes to her fair sister. Narcissa kept her gaze locked on her son.

"Of course, do whatever you need to do, Bella," Narcissa answered softly.

Oh shit. She was going to see for herself if Granger was still in the dungeons. Why did that make him so uneasy? Was she going to torment her again? Give her another scar to bear? Malfoy stepped forward just as Narcissa put a hand on her son's abdomen, holding him back. Lucius was talking to Yaxley and a few other Death Eaters Draco knew by face but not name. A search party had already broken out among their Manor, a sea of black robes breaking off in opposite directions.

After the massacre last time, no one ever summoned The Dark Lord unless absolutely certain.

"Draco," his mother whispered, bringing his attention to her. "What happened?" Draco shook his head. Not now, mother. His eyes shifted to Bellatrix, who was sending groups to specific areas of the Manor. Always running the show. If Snape hadn't killed Dumbledore, Bella would still be The Dark Lord's right hand. She'd lost that title, and he could see in the way she dictated, she was eager to win it back.

"Draco, come with Auntie. Let's pay the Mudblood a visit," Bellatrix called, a malicious smile dancing on her lips. The room had emptied, but Draco could hear footsteps all around him. Lucius had joined the search, but his mother remained next to him.

"Bella," Narcissa chided, but Bella didn't give her a second glance.

"Come, Draco. Now." It wasn't a request.

"I'll be fine, mother," Draco murmured low, only for his mother to hear. She stepped down from her protective stance, letting him stride forward. Bellatrix let Draco open the dungeon door and descend first, following closely on his heels.

Before, the dungeons had a dank, earthy smell but now, he could smell _her. _Lavender mingled with patchouli. Fuck. He might as well start digging his own grave. He kept a passive face as they reached Granger, still knocked out cold from his stunner spell. She would be for awhile.

"Did you stun her?" Bellatrix asked, a note of approval in her tone. Draco nodded, tucking his hands safely away in his pockets.

"She was rather panicked by the alarms. I needed her to be silent," Draco explained, keeping his voice monotone. He couldn't quiver. Bellatrix was trained to listen for inconsistencies in stories. She could sniff a liar out like a hound.

"Very well. What is that stench?" Bellatrix commented, lifting her nose high in the air. Draco gulped.

"I think she's been using nonverbal spells. Her strength has returned, somewhat, after feeding her. But The Dark Lord insists we keep her alive," Draco answers lightly. Granger got him into this shit. He can't be blamed for whatever excuses he has to fabricate.

"Hmmm," Bellatrix mused, unhappy by his answer. She knelt down to Granger's immobile body, laid on her side, facing them. Her hair looked more tame, noticeably clean but as curly as ever. When he cleaned her clothes, he didn't bother patching them up and silently thanked himself for it. Bellatrix picked up Granger's arm, examining her handy work.

"Perhaps I'll add to this," Bellatrix motioned to Granger's limp arm. Draco instinctively grasped the handle of his wand. What he intended on doing, he wasn't sure. All the same, he was ready to strike and the thought confused him, deeply. What the fuck was his problem? He didn't want to hear her scream—he heard them enough in his sleep. Granger stupidly sacrificed herself to save _anybody, _even a git like himself. Her bloody martyr complex was stifling.

Bellatrix reached to pull something from beneath her robes. He held his breath, stealing himself for the worst. A small blade appeared, no longer than his index finger. His heart began pumping in his ears, blood crashing like waves in his system. Adrenaline.

"Such a pretty face. Such a shame," Bellatrix whispered, slowly and agonizingly tracing the blade against Granger's cheekbone. Quick, like she was striking ink to parchment, she cut into Granger's flesh. Immediate blood seeped from the wound. Another scar, certainly. The pain didn't rouse Granger, and he let out a shaky exhale. His wand felt slick in his sweaty grip.

"Let's go. I shall pay a visit when she's conscious. Much more fun to play with, when she's responsive," Bellatrix sighed, sounding truly disappointed. His Aunt swept past him but Draco felt rooted to the spot, watching blood trickle down Granger's cheek like tears. His dream from before struck him then, her blood the same crimson as his own. He wanted to touch it.

Fuck. No. He didn't. Nausea wracked his frame as he took a tentative step back.

"Draco," his Aunt ordered, halfway up the steps. Draco stumbled over his large feet, turning on his heel and clambering up after Bellatrix. Once they had reentered into light, away from Granger and her intoxicating scent, Draco closed his eyes, focusing intently on sealing her wound. He could feel the magic thrumming through him like a live wire. Turning to secure the dungeon door behind him, he pulled his wand free and swished it, blindly into the darkness.

"We found nothing," Lucius declares, returning with Yaxley. Bellatrix looks displeased, surely wanting to revel in the all the glory of capturing Potter or Weasley.

"We will still notify The Dark Lord of what happened, he will want to know. If needed, Draco, we will need details directly from you. Given you were the only one present," Bellatrix sniffed, her nose still in the air, as if smelling for his fear. Narcissa reached for Draco's hand, and under normal circumstances he'd shake her off, but he needed her. She squeezed his hand twice.

"Fine, yeah," Draco mumbled, looking down at his shiny shoes.

"Let's clear up, boys," Bellatrix calls, still dictating. A few Apparated on the spot, whilst others lingered, chattering. The excited buzz from earlier dead.

Draco needed to be alone. Escaping from his mother was going to be a chore in itself. He wanted nothing more than to brew in the shower and curl up in his armchair with a drink. Anything to get out of his own head for awhile.

"Mother, I'm spent. I'll be down for dinner," Draco said, letting go of his mother's hand. Narcissa wanted to protest, but Draco gave her no choice as he departed. His feet felt heavy. Once in the solace of his room, Draco tore off his shirt. Granger's scent clung to him from carrying her. It was giving him a headache.

One side of him wants to hate Granger and her selfishness. The less rational side wished Granger would've told him the truth. He might have helped her, like he originally planned with the parchment. Purge himself of her burden. She must have meticulously planned everything, but not good enough. If the bloody house elf hadn't dropped half their china on the floor, none of it would have happened. She got her moment alone and that's all she needed for her plan. Foolish, petulant girl. Yet he admired her somehow, for her nerve, something he never really had.

He should be pleased, he had the Gryffindor princess at his mercy. She was so annoying with her big fucking brain and hair. A disgrace to everything he was ever taught about the Wizarding World. Muggle parents. Know-it-all that somehow had the audacity to act better than him, a Pureblood with more money than she'd ever laid eyes on. Draco a couple years ago would've been boastful. He wouldn't be dreaming of touching Granger, holding her. There was an unexpected magnetic pull to the dungeon, to _her. _

Seeing her so vulnerable made him realize their similarities. War changes people, and look at him now. Look at her. He was so fucked up and there was no one he could turn to. Not even his mother, Blaise, Pansy, Crabbe, Goyle... certainly not his father. His father would turn him over to The Dark Lord, no hesitation. He was alone and so was she.

Draco's feet carried him to his armchair, but he hardly noticed. A fire came to life behind him, warming his backside. Only thing missing now was a bottle of firewhisky. Closing his eyes, Draco let his mind continue self destruct mode.

He needed to stay away from Granger. He'd get the bloody house elves to feed her. She liked the creatures, didn't she? What was the name of that stupid group.. S.P.A.T.? No.. that didn't sound right. This madness had to stop before he did something really stupid, as if he hadn't already risked his life enough for the girl. He stayed away before, he could do it again. Time away could give him a clearer perspective. The more he saw Granger, the more his senses clouded with poor judgement. What was next? Invite her to dinner? Fuck, he might as well walk her to the front door, watch her go and it'd be a good riddance, too.

He felt resolute in his resolve. He would stay away. He would stop this death wish of his, save himself and his parents, at least. He wasn't exactly in the clear, because The Dark Lord wasn't going to let this go untouched. He'd be questioned, and no matter his skill at Occlumency, the thought was jarring. Those snake like eyes were frightening for anyone, even his supposed followers. It inflicted fear and that's exactly what he wanted.

All of this, her fault. Her screams, her eyes twinkling at him, her half-assed insults and the way her forehead crinkled when she got angry.. her fault. Maybe if he kept saying it, he'd start believing it. Time away from the Manor might do him some good. Return to Hogwarts for a short while. His mother would support this, she kept badgering him to go back. She thought he'd be safe there, but he was certain nowhere was safe anymore, not even his surname proved to be helpful. Malfoy was a name that kept lowering in status, and at this rate, he was a joke. A coward. Ever since that damned night in the Astronomy Tower.

Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair, tousling his usual neat style. He needed a cut, strands laid across his forehead into his eyes. A broom ride ought to brighten his sour mood. He needed it, for his muscles felt constricted to the extremity of a dull, aching pain. He stood then, making way to his walk-in closet full of similar articles of clothing. Blacks, grays, whites and some greens. He nabbed the first white dress shirt he saw, his nimble fingers fastening each button and the cuffs, as well. It was warm enough that he didn't need a jumper or his robes. He had an array of brooms, each collector items and the fastest brooms on the market. Today, he chose his Silver Arrow, petite and swift. Perfect for what he had in mind.

The Manor was quiet again as he stepped out, and thankfully he dodged his inquiring mother. He couldn't avoid her forever. Late morning, early afternoon light soaked into him, his steps already lighter than before, muscles slacking in response. He mounted his Silver Arrow, and kicked off from the ground. Fresh air pushed his hair back, an unavoidable smile breaking across his face. It felt foreign to smile, a real, genuine smile. Light moods such as this came fleetingly. He leaned forward, gaining more speed. He turned upward sharply, excitement bubbling in his veins. Taking himself higher, he left the Manor behind until it was a small dot beneath him. The air felt dense the more he flew, and the sun beat down on him harshly. Draco wanted to get further away, watch his problems diminish into nothing before his eyes. He kept on soaring, higher and higher.. he was beginning to lose his breath, oxygen levels lowering the higher he flew, vision blacking in and out. A thought crossed him then, intrusive but rather inviting. He could let go, fall to his death. Everyone would know it was a suicide. He didn't care. His mother would mourn him, of course, and his father would be yet again disappointed.

Granger. Her laughter, from his dream, rang clear like a bell in his head.

He couldn't do it. He'd have to see if she was alright. Had to see if he successfully healed her cheek. Letting go, Draco pointed the tip of his broom downward, the drop so intense, it felt like he'd left his stomach behind.

When he landed, he had no intentions on returning to his room or going to lunch. He was going to see Granger. She was bound to be hungry, and full of questions.


End file.
